


Holidays are Joyful

by kittensmctavish



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Confessions, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Secret Santa, Shyan Writing Events, shyan secret santa 2018, shyanwritingevents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensmctavish/pseuds/kittensmctavish
Summary: There's always something new.(Or: Shane draws Ryan's name for the Buzzfeed office Secret Santa.)





	Holidays are Joyful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookysunflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookysunflower/gifts).



> this is my secret santa gift for spooky-sunflowers.
> 
> the prompts provided were: mistletoe kisses; fireplace cuddles; the can-you-be-my-pretend-boyfriend trope; ryan getting secretly turned on by shane singing "baby, it's cold outside"; and shane and ryan getting paired up for the buzzfeed office secret santa. i tried to incorporate all of the prompts into the fic in some way, some more obvious than others. 
> 
> a LOT of songs are mentioned in this fic; i listened to a LOT of music when writing this fic. 
> 
> ...i've also sort of never written shyan before this. so...that's a thing.

You know…it kinda figures.

That’s all Shane can think as he stares at the name on the slip of paper. The very familiar name in very familiar handwriting.

_Ryan Bergara_

Like…of COURSE he’d end up drawing Ryan’s name for the annual Buzzfeed office Secret Santa.

…this was going to be simultaneously the easiest and hardest year of Secret Santa ever.

Previous years had been just plain easy. Sara? Art supplies and pictures of cats. Devin? Trolled her with a bunch of Harry Potter/Potter Puppet Pals/A Very Potter Musical shit (and at least one thing from Glee with Darren Criss’ face on it). Keith? Anything and everything pertaining to fried chicken.

Ryan, though…

Shane knows Ryan SO WELL. So this SHOULD be easy.

And yet, that’s what also makes it contradictorily hard. He knows Ryan so well. TOO well. It could be very easy to slip up…like, he could give away RIGHT away that it’s him. He could unknowingly make that so obvious…

…or he could make other things very obvious without meaning to…and that possibility scares Shane more than anything.

***

Buzzfeed’s a little…extra…with the whole Secret Santa thing. It’s a weird hybrid between Secret Santa and…Advent calendar?...sort of?...but not really? Question marks?

It’s not the kind of Secret Santa where you get the person one gift and that’s it. No, Secret Santa STARTS on December 1, and you just get them little things as the month goes on. No set number of gifts or anything (although in the years of doing this, it’s an unspoken rule that at LEAST three gifts is the minimum) (and there IS a maximum spending amount…don’t be a fuckin’ showoff).

First gift is usually a free thing of sorts. Usually a little note printed out to make their Secret Santa’s day a little brighter, let them know you’re excited to get them stuff.

If you want to go extra, you can draw your Secret Santa a thing. Or make them a mix CD.

Shane goes with the latter.

He agonizes over CD theme choice. He agonizes over song choice once he has a theme down. He agonizes over FONT choice. (Yes, he’s somehow worried enough to think that Ryan will figure out it’s him based on the FONT he uses for the cover note.) (Somebody calm him down.)

***

Shane’s Secret Santa strikes sooner rather than later.

He walks up to his desk on the third of December and sure enough, there’s a folded-up piece of paper perch atop his keyboard. He picks it up as he sits down.

Something is printed on the front, in a curly, antiquated font. He reads the passage:

_“You don’t believe in me,” observed the Ghost._

_“I don’t,” said Scrooge._

_“What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?”_

_“I don’t know,” said Scrooge._

_“Why do you doubt your senses?”_

_“Because,” said Scrooge, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”_

Shane snorts at the familiar text, and snorts even further when he unfolds the paper.

The inside reads, _Scrooge: the O.G. Shaniac. He’s even just as funny as you are, though that’s not saying much. —your Secret Santa_

“Oh my god,” Shane can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Shane looks up to see Ryan settling down in his desk next to him. “What’s so funny?” Shane hands Ryan the note to read. “Ooh, first Secret Santa gift.” Ryan scans the front, then the back, laughing a little. “I mean, they’re not wrong.”

“Enh…not completely right, either,” Shane hems. “Scrooge swings pretty quickly into Boogara territory shortly thereafter. Right down to the ‘nope’ factor and everything.”

“Huh,” is all Ryan says. Not an expression of agreement, not an expression of surprise, just…an expression.

“Yeah, Marley’s all ‘you will be haunted by three spirits’ and Scrooge is all ‘I…I think I’d rather not’. Repeated stutter of “I” and everything. I mean, THAT’S very you, to just be like ‘yeah, no, fuck that’.”

“I mean…” Before Ryan can continue, Shane tilts his head down and gives Ryan a Look. Ryan glares back at the Look before gesturing at the paper. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’d ABSOLUTELY use indigestion as a possible excuse for dismissing proof of ghosts.”

“I seem to recall a certain episode we filmed at a certain penitentiary after eating certain hot dogs from a certain airport,” Shane says, “and I don’t recall being so far gone as a result of certain said hot dogs to think we were ACTUALLY conversing with a certain Al Capone via a certain spirit box.”

“Please stop saying the word ‘certain’,” Ryan says. “It barely sounds like a word anymore.”

“Certainly!” Shane raises his cup of tea and winks at Ryan as he sips. “If you’ll stop insulting my Secret Santa gift.”

“But YOU’RE insulting your Secret Santa gift.”

“I am not!” Shane says with mock affront. “I’m merely pointing out the fault in their logic. Which I also intend to do to their face when the month is over.”

“Better watch out, they’ll probably call you an ACTUAL Scrooge if you hate on their gifts enough.”

“Okay, then I really WILL be insulted. I am not a greedy capitalist fuck like Scrooge was.”

“…I’m curious, if you DID have to be a Scrooge, which one would you want to be?” Ryan asks. Shane blinks at the question before giving it some thought.

“…probably Michael Caine from ‘The Muppet Christmas Carol’,” he finally answers. “I’d get to hang with Kermit and Paul Williams would write the soundtrack. What’s not to like?”

“…you ever think Scrooge hated the hymn ‘Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing’?”

Wow, Ryan is just…FULL of random questions today. All Shane can do is blink again because…seriously, what’s going on in the little guy’s noggin?”

“You know, with the whole ‘Here I raise mine Ebenezer’ bit,” Ryan explains. “You think that ever bugged him?”

“Well…he’s a fictional character, so I’m guessing it didn’t,” Shane says slowly. “And even if it did, it was probably pre-Christmas Eve, when EVERYTHING bugged him.”

“I guess…”

“Also, I think the Ebenezer from the hymn is…like…the biblical Eben-Ezer. Like, the place from the books of Samuel where Israelites and Philistines battled.”

Ryan stares at Shane for a moment before saying, “I should be surprised that you’d know something like that, but it’s you, so I’m not.”

“…or who knows, maybe the hymn was referencing the ‘Ebenezer’ hymn tune in some sort of weird hymn-ception deal. You know, the one that goes…” Here Shane hums a little of the hymn. “…wait, hold on…” More to himself rather than to (a really quite confused) Ryan, Shane sings a few of the lines from “Come Thou Fount” to the tune of “Ebenezer.” “Oh my god, that totally scans!”

“…Shane, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, dude. You’re the one who brought it up. Like, why the sudden interest in hymns?”

“Oh.” Ryan turns towards his desk and reaches for something. “My Secret Santa made me a CD. According to them, it’s songs they grew up with around Christmas. ‘Come Thou Fount’ was on there, but like…this really big orchestral version that you probably wouldn’t hear in the church, unless it was…like…a big fancy-ass church or something.”

“Huh.” Shane takes the proffered CD from Ryan and examines the track list as though seeing it for the first time. “Interesting selection.” (He would know. He’d spent the better part of a night trying to choose songs he’s pretty sure Ryan doesn’t know he has familiarity with.) (And with all this hymn talk, he’s a little afraid he’s blown his cover. In his defense, he’s from the Midwest. Lutherans abound. He kinda can’t help knowing this shit.)

“Kinda digging it, though,” Ryan says. “Like, I don’t listen to a lot of the more sacred classical stuff so…it’s nice to remember how beautiful that stuff can be. Can’t wait to properly thank them for this.”

(Shane’s heart does a happy little leap, and he hopes no trace of ecstatic-ness is apparent on his face.)

“Yeah, normally you’re just watching your own ‘All I Want For Christmas’ video for the umpteenth time,” Shane teases as he hands the CD back to Ryan. Ryan smacks his arm lightly as he reaches for the CD. “Speaking of…” Shane fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I think I’ve found a cover to rival yours.”

“Mine wasn’t a cover, it was just a stupid video,” Ryan says, rolling his chair over closer to Shane, peering over his shoulder to get a look at what Shane’s typing in. Shane turns away to hide the surprise.

And then, for the next minute and a half, Ryan and Shane are laughing over the beauty of an otamatone cover of “All I Want For Christmas”. God bless you, TheRealSullyG.

***

The next gift from his Secret Santa comes sooner than he expects. As in, so soon that he hasn’t even thought of what to get Ryan next.

It’s propped up in his desk chair as though sitting itself. Something wrapped that’s big, thin, and flat.

On top of the wrapping paper, a folded piece of computer paper boasts his name. He flips the fold up to read, in a font different from the last:

_This took ages. I hope you’re happy. —your Secret Santa_

Interest piqued, Shane picks up the gift and unwraps it. From the glossy hardcover that peeps through the corner, it appears to be a children’s book of some kind.

The title is revealed first. “Daisy-Head Mayzie”.

…makes sense, given the Hotdaga, Shane will give them that. And he doesn’t actually know…ANYTHING about this Dr. Seuss book, so…

…but then he rips off the rest of the wrapping paper to reveal the rest of the cover.

Admittedly, he has not idea what the read Daisy-Head Mayzie looks like. But he’s pretty sure she doesn’t look like the cartoon ear of corn (but with a daisy taped to her hair…um…peels…fronds?) they use for his Mayzie in the Hotdaga. He’s, like…86% certain about that.

“Don’t tell me…” It’s somewhere between a chuckle and a murmur, veering more into chuckle territory as he flips through the pages to confirm that yes, his Secret Santa really did tape a still of corn!Mayzie over Seuss!Mayzie through the whole. Fucking. Book. And then added a daisy again (even if the daisy that’s IN the book is still clearly visible.)

He doesn’t even read the words; he just flips through every page and looks at every new Mayzie that appears, laughing at the juxtaposition between the charming Seussian illustrations and the printed clipart of his lesbian ear of corn heroine. (He also may or may not check for cameos from other Hotdaga characters, of which there are none.)

It’s the kind of gift he never knew he needed in his life until it was in his hands.

He gleefully shows it to Ryan when Ryan comes in. Ryan skims through the pages, shaking his head, saying something about Shane’s Secret Santa being a weird son of a bitch.

***

“So all the nice things I said about my Secret Santa and my CD? I take it all back.”

“Um…good morning to you, too?”

Shane’s walked over to his desk, a fresh cup of coffee to help him start his day, when Ryan thrusts a cardboard rectangle into his face.

“Ah. It’s an Advent calendar,” Shane says. “How sweet.”

“Hardly,” Ryan scoffs. “Look closer. LOOK WHAT THEY DID.” Shane blinks, jolting away slightly as Ryan holds the calendar closer to his face.

“…are the little squares taped shut?” Shane asks, trying to sound confused.

“My Secret Santa gave me an empty Advent calendar. They ate ALL OF THE LITTLE CHOCOLATE SQUARES. I was gonna dig in and play catch-up on the month, but NOPE. They beat me to the fucking punch, evidently.”

…okay, admittedly, MAYBE Shane’s Secret Santa’s sass was rubbing off on him, JUST a little bit. (But also…Ryan is just SO fun to fuck with.)

“Well, I think it’s a very thoughtful gift,” Shane says. “They’re saving you from the agony of subpar confectionaries.”

(Shane ate only one of the squares. And that was about five squares too many.)

“It’s a thoughtful gift, all right,” Ryan grumbles as he tosses the calendar on top of his keyboard. “And that thought was ‘How can I ruin this gift utterly and completely?’”

“It’s not RUINED, I mean…the calendar is still nice.”

And it was—one of those quaint illustrations of a snowy Germanic town with small Hummel figurine–like children carrying candles and smiling in a way that was probably mean to be charming but came off more “Children of the Damned”-y.

“Still…if the rest of the month is like this, I’m gonna have some choice words with them.”

“I’m assuming the words ‘fuck’ and ‘you’ will be involved?”

“Enh, probably.”

***

…okay, in retrospect, Shane DOES feel kinda bad.

Just because HIS Secret Santa is being a little sassy sassafras doesn’t mean he has to take it out on Ryan.

(But also, selfishly, he doesn’t want Ryan’s first words to him post-Secret Santa reveal to be “Fuck you, dude”.) (…although given what Shane’s planning for the last gift, he’s not entirely optimistic, but he’ll worry about that closer to the 24th.)

When he gets home that night, he makes popcorn. A fuckton of popcorn. The way he knows Ryan likes it best.

He takes some of those small Ziploc bags with the festive holiday prints and numbers them 1 through 24. He then fills each bag with a small handful of popcorn. He prays none of the popcorn goes stale, or that Ryan just says “fuck it” to the Advent calendar charade and eats all of the popcorn in one sitting.

He places each bag neatly in one of those large popcorn tins that are normally filled with butter, caramel, and cheese popcorn, 24 to 1. And on the top of the tin, he tapes a note.

**Sorry about the first Advent calendar. In retrospect, that was quite mean. Hope you like this Advent calendar more. :) —your Secret Santa**

***

_Your boyfriend is in this. Also, that one girl from “Whale Rider” who ended up on “Game of Thrones”. And it’s directed by the same director as the first “Twilight” movie. —your Secret Santa_

“Those are three facts that…DO not belong together but make for one hell of an icebreaker,” Ryan says as Shane rips open the wrapping paper.

“I’m most curious as to the remark about the boyfriend,” Shane says. “In case you forgot…” He points at himself self-deprecatingly. “…pretty fuckin’ single.”

He looks down at the opened gift. It’s a DVD of “The Nativity Story”. It’s one of those movies that he’s faintly aware is a thing and was made but he’s never seen because it just never blipped his radar. He turns it over to look at the cast list.

“Ohhhhhhh, Oscar Isaac is in this,” Shane says, looking back at the cover to see that, sure enough, Poe Dameron is beardy weirdly-hot Joseph. “THAT’S what they meant by ‘boyfriend’.”

“I mean…you DO have kind of a crush on him,” Ryan offers.

“I have a crush on Poe Dameron; there’s a difference. Oscar Isaac is not crushable in EVERY movie he’s in.”

 “Well, maybe he’s crushable in THIS movie.”

“…somehow, that feels kind of wrong, what with him playing the son of God’s stepfather.”

Ryan snorts.

“You’re so going to hell for saying that about Joseph.”

“We literally hunt ghosts for the internet’s entertainment and we stole a bridge from a demon. If I’m going to hell, I’m taking you right there with me, baby.”

***

**It wasn’t Christmas in the [redacted] household unless we watched this. —your Secret Santa**

“Shane, you NEED to watch this with me,” Ryan says, waving his most recent Secret Santa gift—a DVD of the classic Rankin-Bass animated special “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”—in Shane’s face. “I need someone to help me process some of this shit.”

“Ryan, if you need help looking for the ‘elf practice’ meme of yesteryear in that thing, your stop-motion princess is in another castle of Misfit Toys,” Shane says calmly. “Specifically, the Rudolph one with the fey little dentist elf and the rampant amounts of abominably shitty parenting.”

“Dude, this thing is an EXPERIENCE, and I want to experience it with you. At the VERY least, I need your opinion on the drug trip song.”

“The what now? Santa gets high in this? That’s not very kid-friendly.”

“No, there’s a song that…well, I call it the drug trip song, you’ll have to see it for yourself to know why.” (Shane knows EXACTLY which song Ryan’s talking about…and he’s never surprised when some broadcasts cut the song from airing.)

 “All right, all right, enough with the cajoling already, I’ll watch it with you.”

“Awesome. Thank you. …if you want, you can bring your movie, too. Make it a double feature.”

“A Rankin-Bass special and ‘The Nativity Story’. That’s one hell of a double feature.”

Makes for one hell of a night, too. Shane doesn’t even need to worry too much about pretending he’s not familiar with “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town. He’s too distracted by watching Ryan react to everything. From the way young Kris Kringle reminds him on Ron Weasley, to that uncomfortable-in-retrospect “If You Sit on My Lap Today” song (“Jesus, no WONDER they cut that song from broadcast”) to Kris Kringle being arrested (“Oh no, you’ve captured my penguin, instant defeat…SHANE…THIS MAKES NO SENSE”) to the drug trip song (“Can you imagine watching this song when you’re ACTUALLY high? I can…and it terrifies me”) to the magic feed corn that can make reindeer fly (“HOW COINCIDENTALLY CONVENIENT”).

As they watch, they reach down at Ryan’s popcorn Advent calendar and withdraw the little bags of kernels. Occasionally, they reach down at the same time and accidentally grab for the same bag. Shane always acquiesces, as it’s Ryan’s calendar; Ryan always pours a little handful from the bag in question into Shane’s palm.

The watching of “The Nativity Story” is…it’s not SOMBER, per se, but it’s a more serious filmmaking effort, so it’s not as rife for jokes. There’s the occasional comment that goes along the lines of “Really? Same director as the first ‘Twilight’ movie?”, trying to name the Christmas carols they recognize in the score at times, pointing out that of COURSE Herod’s the bad guy, he’s, like, the only one in the cast played by a white actor with a tan.

Shane WOULD comment on how it’s still slightly uncomfortable to think about Oscar Isaac in any crushable way in this movie, given what story it’s telling and who he’s playing. But honestly…the movie portrays Joseph as such a good man in general that he sort of gets it. And probably would even if it weren’t for the Poe Dameron factor.

At one point, Shane reaches down for another little bag of popcorn, prompting Ryan to do the same. Shane’s still watching the screen (Mary seems to have gone into labor and Joseph’s trying to find a place for them and “Carol of the Bells” is playing ominously in the score, so…shit’s going down), so his fingers keep hitting the metal of the tin, and he reaches down further, grasping for a hint of plastic bag, only to grab Ryan’s fingers.

One of them lets out a small “oh”, maybe both of them. Shane looks over at Ryan, then down at the tin. It’s empty, save for their still-joined hands.

“I guess we went through that faster than we thought,” Shane jokes weakly…not even really a joke, just…a distraction, he guesses?...from the fact that he’s still holding Ryan’s hand and Ryan hasn’t pulled away.

“Yeah…” Ryan lifts his hand out of the now-empty tin, taking Shane’s with it, before untangling their fingers (Shane’s not sure if he imagines the little squeeze to his hand as Ryan withdraws his). “Thanks for helping me finish it, big guy.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me.” Shane glances back at the screen. “Sort of defeats the purpose of the Advent calendar, eating all the days in one go, but…”

“Yeah, well…kinda better to eat it all in one go…don’t know how my Secret Santa would feel about letting their gift go stale.”

“Stale popcorn IS unpleasant.”

They fall into a comfortable silence after that, partly due to Jesus being born in the film. Doesn’t seem right to talk through the birth of the son of God.

Maybe their fingers brush against each other’s as they watch. And maybe one of them pulls their hand away after the first couple of times. If their fingers stay resting against each other’s after a time through the rest of the movie, neither of them talks about it.

***

“Are we talking just plain ‘worst’ Christmas songs, or do you mean ‘inappropriate’? Because if the latter, then technically, I think ‘Dick in a Box’ would be the worst Christmas song.”

“Nah, there’s WAY worse.”

It’s the Buzzfeed holiday party. Dozens of employees are dressed in their holiday best (or their ugliest Christmas sweaters), drinking watered-down-but-still-alcohol-heavy punch, dancing, chatting, and generally having a good time as some holiday Pandora station blares about the space.

At the moment, Ryan and Shane, en route to the punch bowl, are embroiled in a discussion about godawful Christmas songs, while Curly croons into a microphone that he…somehow procured, singing “Santa baby, I actually think fat guys are kinda hot”.

“At the moment, I’m tempted to say this,” Ryan says, pointing up in a general direction to indicate the musical stylings of their coworker.

“Nah, Michael Buble’s ‘look at how secure in my masculinity I am’ version of ‘Santa Baby’ is WAAAAAAAAY worse, not to mention an affront to humanity and Eartha Kitt,” Shane argues as the two of them reach the punch bowl.

“Interesting that you separate Eartha Kitt from humanity.”

“She was a goddess who took human form and graced us with her presence for far too brief a time.”

By the time they get back to the couch they’d been occupying, they’ve moved away from Eartha and back to the topic at hand.

“I’m just saying,” Shane says as he sits next to Ryan, leaning a bit closer into him than he normally would (thank you, terrible office party punch, for popping the concept of personal bubbles), “if done right, this song is not as cringey as today’s society would have you believe it is.” Said song they’re discussing is “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, currently being sung by Seth Macfarlane and Sara Bareilles.

“Really?” Ryan says, turning his body to face Shane. “Gimme ONE example.”

“The James Taylor and Natalie Cole one is pretty innocent,” Shane ticks off as an example. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Of COURSE it is; James Taylor’s the musical equivalent of mashed potatoes—comforting and rather sleep-inducing at times. You couldn’t imagine him as the type to spike someone’s drink with anything unseemly even if you TRIED.”

“Then the Barry Manilow version,” Shane offers. “Don’t ask me who sings it with him, I forget her name, but it’s from his first Christmas album, which is half actual Christmas songs and half Barry Manilow songs with the words ‘Christmas’ and ‘winter’ thrown in there to barely hide the fact that they’re B-side tracks that never made it on to an official album.”

“You seem intimately familiar with this particular album,” Ryan muses as he sips his punch.

“I’ve had thirty-odd Christmases of my mom listening to it, I should as shit SHOULD be intimately familiar with it.”

“And the ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ isn’t the cringiest song on the album?”

“No—well, not in the way most people think. It’s the sweet talk in between the singing that both makes it better AND worse.”

“How so?”

“Pet names like ‘honey buns’ and ‘sweet lips’, for one fuckin’ thing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“At one point, I shit you not, Barry says to her about the very comfortable couch they’re apparently sitting on…” Shane leans in closer to Ryan, slipping an arm around his shoulder and putting on his best Manilow impression. “He says, ‘It’s not a couch, puddin’ pop…it’s a loooooooooooooove-seat’.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan cackles, ducking out of Shane’s arm as Shane winks at him. “Can’t decide what’s worse, you saying that or the fact that Manilow said it.”

“Manilow was quite the looker back then. At least, if you’re my mom, he was.”

“And despite THAT LINE, it’s not the cringiest song on that album?”

“Nah, my vote goes to ‘I Guess There Ain’t No Santa Claus’, the premise of which is, ‘I’m single on Christmas; this must PROVE Santa doesn’t exist’.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Then there’s ‘Because It’s Christmas’, which is basically ‘I Write the Songs’ only not.”

“Honestly didn’t peg you as a Manilow guy.”

“I’m NOT a Manilow guy. I just have more familiarity with his oeuvre than I’d care to admit, mostly thanks to my mom. Although admittedly, ‘Dancin’ Fool’ is a fuckin’ bop and a half."

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ryan says before taking a sip of his punch. “God, this stuff is awful and I don’t know why I keep drinking it.”

“Because it’s here and you’re here and it’s free?”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.”

“Anyway, back to the discussion at hand…”

The debate re: godawful Christmas songs goes on for a good portion of the time they’re at the party. Strong contenders end up being “Cherry Cherry Christmas” (or “Neil Diamond Songs: The Christmas Song”), “The Christmas Shoes” (“Patton Oswalt put it best”), or that one John Denver song about spousal abuse. “Same Old Lang Syne” is also a dishonorable mention (“They share a 12-pack and he LETS HER DRIVE HOME DRUNK”). Shane attempts to make an argument for “Adam Lay Ybounden” and “Coventry Carol” (“because you know that’s super Christmas-y? The Fall of Man. As is mass child genocide.”) but Ryan shoots it down, mostly due to unfamiliarity with old-ass hymns…though they do SOUND grim.

“…‘Silver Bells’?” Ryan suggests after a lull in the debate.

“What about it?” Shane says, staring into his cup as though more terrible punch will magically appear if he stares long and hard enough.

“Worst Christmas song.”

Shane looks up, and his face must read incredulity, because Ryan laughs.

“All the other godawful songs we’ve mentioned,” Ryan explains, leaning forward, “at least they’re MEMORABLY godawful. ‘Silver Bells’ is just boring as fuck.”

“…that’s a good point. A REALLY good point.”

“Right? Like, which would you rather be forced to listen to—‘Silver Bells’ or…fuckin’ ‘A Marshmallow World’?”

“…well, obviously, I’m gonna choose the Christmas song that was clearly written by someone after smoking just…ALL of the weed.”

“Exactly. Blatant, unforgettable mediocrity surpasses dull, forgettable mediocrity.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Shane begins to raise his cup to his lips before he pauses. “Wait, I can’t, I’m out of punch again.”

“Yeah, I ran out, like, three songs ago.”

“Want more?”

“Nah, I should probably stop.”

“Same.”

In the brief lull that follows, Shane takes a moment to listen to whatever song the Pandora station is playing now, perhaps to add to the discussion. Instead, he smiles at Karen Carpenter’s familiar croon of “Greeting cards have all been sent…”

“This is a good one,” Ryan says. “This is actually what I had you pegged for.”

“Hmm?” Shane looks at Ryan in questioning.

“Like…earlier when you were talking about Barry Manilow. Like…you didn’t strike me as a Barry Manilow guy.”

“I strike you as a Carpenters guy?”

Ryan shrugs.

“I guess? I don’t know, this just seems like your kind of song…don’t know why. Like, it’ll come up on the radio and it’ll make me think of you.”

Shane’s a bit too drunk to look too much into that. And also drunk enough to do something potentially very stupid.

“Well…it’s not like my mom listened to ONLY Barry Manilow and nothing else.”

Which is why he stands up and take Ryan’s wrist, gently pulling him up and away from the couch they’d been sitting on, their empty punch cups discarded on the floor.

“I remember being younger and…slightly shorter…and this song would come on,” Shane says, moving one hand to Ryan’s waist and holding Ryan’s other hand with his. “And my dad wouldn’t even ask my mom, he’d just pull her away from whatever she was doing and dance with her.”

“Like this?”

“Like this.”

“That’s sweet,” Ryan says with a small, shy smile.

“Tiny me thought it was insufferable because ugh, gross, parents being all lovey-dovey and shit.”

“Hey now…first of all…one day you’re gonna be all lovey-dovey and shit with someone just like your parents were.”

“I mean…” Shane just barely manages to stop himself from saying “I am, literally right now, with you…this is exactly how my parents danced to this song” and lets Ryan continue with his next point.

“And second of all, I don’t believe you’ve ever been tiny a day in your life.”

“Ya got me,” Shane sighs. “I was born a beanpole. I shall die a beanpole.”

“That’s gonna be one hell of a coffin.”

“How dare you. I’m going to be cremated.”

“That’s gonna be one hell of an urn.”

Shane tries to glare at Ryan but falls into giggles right along with him.

“I hate you so much.”

“Mmm, no, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

Whether he’d pulled Ryan in closer and not known it, or whether Ryan had just moved closer on his own, Shane didn’t know. Not until Ryan was ducking his head as if suddenly bashful, his cheek resting on Shane’s shoulder.

Funny. If Shane moved the hand simply resting on Ryan’s waist to wrap around it and hold him just that bit closer, it’d be the exact thing he remembered his dad doing when dancing with his mom.

He may or may not go for it. Ryan may or may not care. Karen Carpenter sings “The logs on the fire fill me with desire…”

“For what it’s worth, I do like Carpenters songs,” Shane murmurs. Ryan hums against his shoulder; Shane thinks he feels Ryan smiling.

“I like them, too,” Ryan says, muffled by red flannel. Ryan squeezes Shane’s hand.

Shane could do something very stupid right now. He could blame it on the godawful punch. He could sing along with Karen, with the end of the song: “I’ve just one wish on this Christmas Eve…I wish I were with you…” He could make everything between them either a hundred times better or a hundred times worse.

Instead, he leans in towards Ryan’s ear and sings, very low, very sweet, slightly sinister: “We’ve only just begun…to live…”

Whatever moment he and Ryan may have been having is instantly quashed as Ryan pulls his hand out of Shane’s to smack him in the shoulder.

“You son of a bitch.” Ryan is laughing too hard to be mad. “You’re gonna give me ‘1408’ flashbacks.”

“But you said you liked Carpenters songs!” Shane says innocently.

“God, I fucking hate you.”

“Mmm, no, you don’t.”

Ryan looks at him for a moment, with something that Shane’s too drunk to read, before he says “No…I don’t.”

It’s one of those moments where it feels like more was said than was actually said…if that makes sense…to Shane, it does. But…one of those moments that leads to something…

…before it can, cries of “MISTLETOE” and “KISS” can be heard close to them.

Shane blinks out of the moment, takes his eyes off Ryan, looks in the direction of the screams.

(His eyes also nervously flicker upwards, to see if THEY’RE the ones, him and Ryan, because…Shane’s not sure he can handle that right now.)

About ten feet away or so, near the punch bowl, a crowd has gathered. Shane sees a green sprig hanging above two figures, hard to make out who with the distance and the crowd.

“Oh god…” he sighs. “Why do people freak out so much about people smoochin’ under the mistletoe? It’s mistletoe. You’re SUPPOSED to smooch under it.”

“Depends on who’s under it, I guess,” Ryan shrugs. “If they’re already a couple, if they’re secretly a couple and mistletoe is their way of announcing it to the world, if it’s two people who’s been tiptoeing around each other forever and the mistletoe is the catalyst leading them towards becoming a couple…”

More raucous cheers.

“Or everyone’s freaking out because they’re drunk as fuck...speaking of ‘drunk as fuck’, all that shitty punch is REALLY starting to kick in.”

“I’ll get us a Lyft.”

***

Their Lyft driver is Shellie, an adorable woman with greying hair, a picture of her grandkids taped to the dashboard, and nice calming classical Christmas music playing to, according to her, “stave off the road rage”.

Shane makes most of the conversation. Ryan dozes against the car window, blinking every now and again, making a valiant effort to stay awake.

“…‘m sorry,” Ryan mumbles after missing the third or so question their driver has asked him. “What’d you ask?”

“Oh my god, here.” Shane rolls his eyes and reaches over to pull Ryan away from the window. “I’m more comfortable than the window. I’ll wake you up when we’re at your place.”

“Mmmkay…thanks, big guy,” Ryan leans against Shane and closes his eyes again.

“No problem, little guy,” Shane says. They run over a bump, and Shane quickly puts an arm around Ryan’s waist to keep him steady. Ryan either doesn’t notice, or he’s too drunk and tired to care. Some piano arrangement of a hymn Shane’s heard before but can’t remember the name of fills the car. As the car turns on to the highway, Ryan’s head lolls into the crook if Shane’s neck. Shane’s hold on Ryan’s waist tightens.

“So how long?” Shellie says as they merge on to the highway.

“Sorry?” Shane asks, voice hushed.

“How long you two been together? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, we’re—” Shane pauses. “It’s not like that.”

“Ah…not quite there yet? Still in the early stages?”

The traffic comes to a bit of a standstill, so she turns to look at Shane, smiles at the sight he and Ryan must make. It probably does look couple-y as hell. And it’s clear she doesn’t watch “Unsolved” or have any clue who they actually are.

So all Shane can do is let out a strangled “yeah”.

“I remember my daughter and her wife being the same way when they started dating,” Shellie sighs wistfully as she turns to look at the road again.

“I just…” Though he’s sobered up a little, he’s still drunk enough to be emotionally vulnerable in front of a complete stranger. “I don’t want to mess things up between us.”

“That sounds familiar,” Shellie says, cheekily but not unkindly. “Turns out, that feeling was mutual. My daughter and her wife. They would’ve been together sooner if they’d just sat down and talked about their feelings for one another.”

“And everything turned out all right?” Shane asks, before pausing to mentally facepalm. “I mean…obviously, yes, it did, otherwise you wouldn’t be talking about them together.”

“It was one of the scariest things she ever did, I remember her telling me,” Shellie says as she flicks the blinker on to signal for the exit. “But it was also one of the best things she ever did. If she hadn’t, she probably still be pining and living with regret.” The car comes to a stop at a red light. Shellie turns to look at Shane. “Now, I know I’m probably being a Nosy Nancy, and if it isn’t any of my business, just say so. But if I were you, I’d tell that boy of yours how much he means to you. REALLY means to you.”

Shane looks from her down at Ryan, still sleeping. He moves his head slightly, as though nestling further into Shane.

“…and if he doesn’t feel the same way?” Shane asks, looking back up at Shellie. She tilts her head down, giving him a look from beneath her spectacles.

“That boy’s as gone for you as you are for him and there’s a part of you that knows it.” From behind her head, the light turns green. Before Shane can inform her of such, she turns and begins to drive again.

“Forgive me if this sounds rude, but…I DON’T know that. YOU don’t know that. He’s been asleep most of the time we’ve been in your car.”

“Honey, I’ve lived more years on this earth than you. Trust me. I know soulmates when I see ‘em.”

In no time at all, they’re in front of Ryan’s house. Shane looks back down at Ryan. He’s breathing deeply, sleeping calmly…Shane almost hates to wake him.

“Ryan,” he whispers, removing his arm from Ryan’s waist to nudge him. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?” Ryan’s head moves a little, eyes still closed.

“Time to wake up, baby.”

“Don’t call me ‘baby’…” Ryan’s eyes open, and he blinks sleep out of his eyes. “What?...shit, did I fall asleep on you?” Ryan moves off of Shane’s shoulder.

“I said it was okay,” Shane says with a soft laugh. “C’mon, I’ll walk you up.” Ryan stretches a little as Shane gets out of the car, walking over to the other wide to open Ryan’s door.

“Oh god…I drank too much…” Ryan groans, pushing his hair back with his fingers.

“Need me to stay with you?” Shane asks.

“No, just need to get into my own bed…” Ryan says around a yawn.

“I’ll wait right here, honey,” Shellie says to Shane.

“Thank you,” Ryan calls to Shellie as Shane helps him stand up and walk to his front door. “Was I rude, sleeping that much?”

“She’s probably seen and dealt with worse, you were fine.”

“Oh…good…”

Shane waits for Ryan to fish out his keys, find the right key, and fit it into the lock.

“Text me when you’re home, okay?” Ryan asks as he turns the key and opens the door.

“Will do, buddy,” Shane says. Ryan turns to him and seems to mull something over before hugging Shane.

“Thanks.”

He’s not really sure what all he’s being thanked for, but Shane hugs him back, maybe holds on a bit too tight, too long, but Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.

If there’s more to be said, neither of them say it as Ryan slips out of Shane’s arms, goes inside, and closes the door.

The drive to Shane’s place is quiet, save for classical piano Christmas music that sounds like snow falling.

***

Come Monday, Shane’s in the office, and Ryan isn’t. He’s about half an hour into the workday when he receives an email, sent to the “Unsolved” crew and their manager.

Ryan’s sick with a sore throat/cold/fever situation. Will be out the rest of the day, possibly the day after, he’ll keep everyone posted.

Shane sends Ryan a text:

**Sorry you’re sick, man. Let me know if you need me to do anything.**

Ryan texts back a little later.

_Thanks, dude. Mostly trying to sleep it off. We’ll see how that goes. :/_

Shane reads the text, thinks for a moment.

Then, he pulls up the website of a small out-of-the-way restaurant that makes a chicken soup Shane KNOWS Ryan loves. It’s the closest thing to his mom’s chicken soup he’s been able to find.

He orders two bowls of the soup. Along with some crackers. And some hot tea with honey. (He checks to see if the restaurant also sells smoothies or milkshakes or something similar to soothe a sore throat, but they don’t.)

He requests delivery to Ryan’s address, giving instructions to tell Ryan the food is from his Secret Santa, and to give him the following note:

**Heard you were sick. Hope this helps you feel better. Get well soon. :) —your Secret Santa**

***

Ryan’s out sick the following day as well. And the day after that. And at this point, what with it being the week before Christmas, he puts in a request to just take the rest of December off. Makes sense to Shane.

That leaves Shane with the problem, though, of revealing that he’s Ryan’s Secret Santa. Reveal day is scheduled to be the Friday before Christmas, since the office is closed for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Just as well, because even if Ryan WERE in the office, Shane has NO IDEA what to get him without being the sappiest of maple trees about everything. Fuck, he hasn’t even gotten Ryan a non–Secret Santa Christmas present.

How is he actually the most garbage of friends/want-to-be boyfriends?

So he just…tries to ignore all the Secret Santa goings-on on Friday. Focus on getting the last few bits of work done before packing for his flight to Illinois tomorrow.

It doesn’t hit him until he’s home that night that…well, fuck. HIS Secret Santa never revealed themselves to him.

He tries to remember everyone who’s been on vacation, anyone who called in sick…

…he mulls over the possibility of it being Ryan.

He quells the same possibility as soon as it’s considered. It’s just wishful hoping, he thinks.

***

The next night, Shane’s in Illinois. His mom has hugged him at least fifty times, and his dad’s snuck at least fifty Christmas treats when Mom isn’t looking. Scott will be here Christmas Eve.

That night, he’s flipping channels looking for a movie to watch, settling on “White Christmas”. Shane’s dad has built a fire. Mom’s cooking. The cat’s jumped up into Shane’s lap and curled up into the warmth of his chest. Shane looks down at a quieter moment to check his email on his phone.

There are a couple of new emails from Ryan, with the subject lines, “THEN THIS ONE” and “READ THIS ONE FIRST”. In inverse order.

Shane opens the “READ THIS ONE FIRST” email. There’s no actual message, save for an audio attachment. He reaches for his earbuds and plugs them into his phone, popping the buds into his ears as he opens the attachment.

The name of the audio file is “Bergara Guitara—Home”. Shane almost drops his phone as the first few notes play.

It’s stumbly and shaky and sweet and slightly melancholy and Shane feels his stomach flip.

He’s bugged Ryan so many times about getting Bergara Guitara on the show, made it a joke for “Believe Me Mayzie”, but he’s always understood and respected that guitar was therapy for Ryan. Private. That he’d share that with the public—with Shane—when he was ready.

Shane almost wants to cry.

He saves the audio file to his phone, marks the email as unread, makes his first priority adding the file to his music library and making it the most played song IN his library. Then he opens the “THEN THIS ONE” email from Ryan.

_Hey,_

_So…surprise. I’m your Secret Santa._

_The song is called “Home”. It’s from a video game Kelsey was gushing about one day called “Undertale”. If you listen to the original, it does sound slightly offbeat in places, like things don’t quite fit, so…hey. Perfect song for me to play because I can claim that any faults were to recreate the original accurately._

_But anyway…there are a lot of songs that remind me of you recently. Carpenters songs. Songs from my Secret Santa’s mix CD, after we talked about it. This song._

_It’s felt like we’ve been stumbling towards something recently. Something more than we already are. And while I have a place to live, and even though my parents live in the same house I grew up in…you’ve come to feel more like home than anything or anyone else I’ve ever known. You’re my home._

_So…I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you in person. Sorry I couldn’t give you this in person. But now you know. Everything._

_Merry Christmas, darling._

_Ryan_

_(P.S. if you don’t like being called “darling”, let me know. Honestly only did that to call back to the Carpenters song; don’t really think it’s a fitting pet name for you.) (But we can figure that out later.) (If you want.) (For what it’s worth…I don’t actually hate it when you call me “baby”.)_

The screen blurs. Shane feels whiskers and a wet nose nudge against his face. He wipes away a tear and holds the cat a little closer, a little tighter, burrows underneath his blanket as the logs in the fireplace shift and crackle.

He can hear the music his mom’s listening to in the kitchen. Carpenters. “Merry Christmas, darling…we’re apart, that’s true…but I can dream, and in my dreams, I’m Christmas-ing with you…”

Shellie’s words echo in his head. “Trust me. I know soulmates when I see ‘em.”

Every gift he’s received this month makes so much sense now, and he’s so stupid for not seeing it earlier.

He’s such an idiot.

…Ryan’s an idiot, too, but he feels like the bigger idiot right now.

When his mom calls him for dinner, he says he’s not hungry. He goes to bed early.

He falls asleep listening to Ryan’s imperfect perfect guitar playing.

***

Shane wakes up feeling like death the next day.

Whoever on the plane gifted him with the stomach bug from hell…worst. Christmas present. Ever.

He isolates himself in the guest room. This is one present he does NOT want to give to anyone else in the family. That would actually ruin Christmas.

His mom knocks on his door to let him know whenever she has something to help settle his stomach. Crackers. Rice. Some weak tea. A little bit of soup.

He sleeps through most of Christmas Eve Eve. Scott knocks on the door with a “Hey, bud. Sorry you’re sick.” Shane groans in response.

It’s at night, when he’s drinking his second cup of tea and nibbling on a Saltine that he realizes he needs to message Ryan.

He’s shaky and his insides hate him and whatever miracle anti-nausea medicine his mom gave him is starting to kick in so he’s starting to conk out, but he manages an email.

**Hey,**

**Funny how things turn out. That you drew my name the same day I drew yours.**

**That’s right, baby. I’m your soulmate, and you’re mine.**

**I’m the worst one ever, because I never was able to come up with a good reveal gift for you.**

**So please accept this heart emoji. It represents my heart. You’ve actually probably had it for a while, but now it’s officially yours.**

**I’m officially yours.**

**It’s all I know to give you right now. I have nothing else. My hands are empty.**

**[heart emoji]**

**Merry Christmas, baby.**

**Shane**

**(P.S. Yeah, the callback to the song was cute, but I think we’d both get tired of “darling” VERY quickly.) (Unless we ever dress up for an Old West haunt again, in which case, prepare to hear “darlin’” a lot, darlin’.)**

He reads it over for typos before hitting “Send”, too sick and tired to worry about Ryan’s reaction or what exactly comes after this.

(It’s probably going to be good…Ryan called Shane his home, it HAS to be good…but there’s always that tiny seed of doubt…)

His first priority now is sleep.

***

The next day when he wakes up, he feels…WAY better.

He’s pretty sure there’s nothing in that anti-nausea medicine that actually does anything to curb nausea. He’s convinced it just knocks you out and makes you sleep for 12+ hours until your body forgets all about being sick.

He decides to still confine himself to his room for the majority of Christmas Eve, just in case. He’ll make an appearance Christmas Day if he feels like the risk of infecting his family is at a low.

When he’s alert enough to check his phone, he has a message notification from Ryan.

_So…question about your email. You said you were my soulmate and I was yours. Did you mean to say “Secret Santa”?_

Shane blinks. Goes back to his Sent messages, reads over the one he sent Ryan last night.

Fuck.

Sure enough, he’d typed “soulmate” instead of “Secret Santa”.

Shit.

He messages back.

**Yes, “Secret Santa” is what I meant, not “soulmate”. I’m sorry. I came down with the stomach virus from hell and was on a LOT of meds when I sent that to you.**

He sets his phone down and sighs, running his hands through his hair. Stupid, STUPID mistake…

His phone boops. New message. Ryan.

_Okay. That’s what I thought. Is there anything else in the message that shouldn’t be taken at face value?_

Shane re-reads the message before comprehension fully dawns on his sick-addled brain because FUCK, now Ryan probably thinks he didn’t mean ANYTHING he said because of the medicine.

**No. I meant every word. I meant that emoji. And…really, if I think about it, fuck it, yes, I guess I also meant the “soulmate” part somewhere in my subconscious because you’re you, and I don’t know how to articulate what all I mean by that in text/email/without showing you. You’re my Secret Santa and my soulmate. I’m your Secret Santa, at the very least; I’ll leave the soulmate part up to you.**

He types it with shaky fingers, reads it over ten times before hitting Send.

And Christ, but he’s never hated the presence of an ellipsis more in his life.

_Okay._

…that’s it? Just “Okay”?

…Shane loves Ryan but CHRIST he’s gonna kill him—

_So I’m gonna say some things now, and you’re not allowed to respond until I’m done, okay?_

Shane blinks at the…not really a request, but not really a demand either. More like a statement of fact.

**Okay…?**

More ellipsis. Long instances of ellipsis.

_Okay._

_So._

_First of all, fuck you for that Advent calendar joke gift._

_Second of all, fuck you for that last gift. Not because it’s intangible or because it’s a fucking emoji. Because there’s no way in hell I deserve it, and I’m scared as hell I’m going to ruin it in some way._

_Third of all, fuck you for being in Illinois, because all I want right now is for you to be in California so I can drive home to you and take your hands in mine so they’re not empty anymore and then kiss the shit out of you._

_And last of all, fuck you for thinking you’re not my soulmate, or that I don’t think of you as my soulmate. You are. Of COURSE you are. You’re not the worst Secret Santa or soulmate ever. You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me._

Shane’s head spins a little and his heart pounds and his stomach flips and none of it is from the virus from hell. Then his phone boops again.

_You can respond now. Sorry. Forgot to say that earlier._

Shane takes a moment, takes a breath, laughs a little, and begins to type.

**First of all, I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you were gonna have choice words for your Secret Santa, “fuck” and “you” being among them.**

**Second of all, you ABSOLUTELY deserve it. It’s maybe already a little dented and cracked and weathered, but none of it’s from you. I trust you with it. I don’t give it lightly. And as I said, I think I gave it to you long ago, and you’ve done fine keeping it so far.**

**Third of all, you don’t want to kiss me or hold hands with me right now. I wouldn’t wish whatever I’ve got on anyone. We can kiss when I’m better. Hopefully New Year’s.**

**And fourth of all, re: the last thing you said…hard same.**

Ryan’s response is almost instantaneous.

_“Hard same”? Really?_

**Would you have preferred “Ditto”, a la Patrick Swayze in “Ghost”? Or “I know”, a la Han Solo?**

_Just saying, there are much better responses._

**Yeah, I know there are, but I want to actually SAY them to your face, and not over a text message. They’re too important for text.**

_Fair enough._

_Wait, I meant to say, hard same._

**I hate you.**

_No, you don’t._

**No, I don’t…I really don’t. :)**

_Merry Christmas, big guy. Get better soon so we can get to smoochin’. ;)_

**Merry Christmas, little guy. I’ll do my best.**

***

So…Shane’s Secret Santa ended up being his best friend…his soulmate. And he’s currently stuck in Illinois with a stomach bug and can’t even smooch Ryan yet, even if he wanted to. (Which he did. A lot.)

You know…it kinda figures.

**Author's Note:**

> happy merry, everyone. :)


End file.
